


Snapshots

by potc



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 15:45:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3535025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potc/pseuds/potc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>A kiss seals two souls for a moment in time. </em><br/>~ Levende Waters</p>
<p>Five times John kissed Harold, and one time Harold returned the favor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snapshots

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to [offkilter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/offkilter) for the beta work and being enormously encouraging and supportive. All remaining mistakes are my own. 
> 
> Warning for mentions of torture and close shaves for our boys.

  **Five times John kissed Harold, and one time Harold returned the favor.**

 

It was at some point between settling down on the cold bench after letting Bear off the leash so that he could run wildly off to play in the snow with his newest friend and now that Harold decided Nathan didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. Ice creams were unequivocally suited for winter.

He took a bite of his plain vanilla cone, wrapped his scarf more firmly around his neck, and watched Bear wrestle with a fluffy white puppy approximately a fifth as large as himself, and then look ridiculously pleased when he won.

“I think he wants some validation for his victory, Harold.”

Harold glanced sideways at John, holding his own chocolate and raspberry cone, the first rays of the morning light hitting his face and making him look … calm. Peaceful. Content. And cold. The tips of John’s ears and nose were red and Harold was seized by a sudden impulse to kiss him. He swallowed and turned his gaze towards Bear standing triumphantly over the puppy again.

“Yes, because this is unmistakably the height of Bear’s accomplishments in combat, Mr. Reese.”

John huffed out a laugh, white fog escaping from his mouth with every breath, licking delicately at his cone, and Harold hurriedly decided that rescuing the puppy and praising Bear was the most prudent course of action he could take at the moment after all.

It was when he was reaching down to collect Bear’s leash that he felt it – the lightest touch of John’s lips brushing his ear, chaste, barely there, only noticeable because Harold was so tuned to John’s movements.

He twisted around awkwardly to stare at John, who gazed back with all the amusement in the world showing in his eyes. Harold blinked owlishly at John, raised an eyebrow and waited patiently for an explanation, and John smiled, his eyes crinkling, looking so _happy_.

“Just checking for frostbite - can't be too careful with the extremities in this cold, Harold.” 

Well, how could Harold possibly argue with that logic? He sighed and gestured for John to whistle for Bear.

“Let’s go home, John.”

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

There were good days and there were bad days. And then, Harold decided as he sank into his chair at the subway gratefully, there were the days that were probably specifically designed by his arch enemies to cause him as pain as possible. Of course, given that his arch enemy at the moment was a super intelligent artificial system that controlled the world, it was entirely possible that his day _had_ just been manufactured by it in some sadistic attempt to torture him.

He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. It had been well over 35 hours since he had managed to get any sleep, he had spent most of them on his feet running around New York, John was out rounding up the last of the imbeciles who had decided that stealing from Dominic was the cleverest plan they could’ve come up with, and he _still_ had papers to grade.

A soft thud and Bear’s effusive greetings broke him out of his musings about Dominic, Samaritan, Elias, Miss. Groves along with a million other things all running in parallel threads, and he looked gratefully at the steaming mug of hot chocolate John set down at his elbow.

“You should get some sleep, Finch.” 

He looked up to see John patting Bear, and immediately winced as a bolt of pain shot up the back of his neck.

“As should you, Mr. Reese. I do, however, have incredibly expansive essays to grade, written by students who used an online thesaurus for every second word. I’m afraid sleep isn’t going to be a luxury I can afford for another 2 hours.”

He turned back to his desk, pulled the first paper towards him with a certain amount of dread and bent his head to start reading. 

He felt John slide up behind his chair and lean down, and for one wild moment thought that he was reading the paper over his shoulder, before he felt the feather-light kiss pressed to the back of his neck. He sighed, tense muscles relaxing as John’s lips lingered there for several exquisitely long moments, spreading heat and warmth where they touched his skin. 

Then John straightened up and rested a warm hand on Finch’s shoulder.

“Enjoy the hot chocolate, Finch.”

Harold nodded absently, cataloguing the decreased levels of pain it took to do so, and mentally shifted his estimation of the day he’d had towards the “good” end of the scale.

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Inviting John back to Harold Whistler’s apartment was a risk. Harold knew it. John knew it. But sometimes they needed this. 

After one close shave too many (fire and heat and black smoke and John desperately grabbing for Harold), one too many miscalculations (Detective Fusco should’ve, would’ve been there in 2 minutes except his car’s engine died precisely 0.13 miles away and he’d had to run the rest of the way to get to John), one too many risks taken (incoherent yells and screams and Harold throwing himself in front of a frightened 72 year old lady in a wheelchair) - yes. They _needed_ this.

How _this_ turned out to be watching Casablanca with a glass of whiskey each, and the room in pitch darkness, Harold had absolutely no idea, but they both still smelled strongly enough of smoke and John had still had a certain desperate edge to him when Harold had suggested that he go back to his own house and rest earlier, that Harold wasn’t in the mood to be questioning it. 

He angled his body to look at John now, drinking in the sight of him staring listlessly at the television, his long sweeping eyelashes, his sharp cheekbones, breathing, here, _alive_.

John’s mouth quirked into the smallest of smiles.

“This is quite an interesting film, Harold.”

“Indeed.”

He continued staring at John and watched as his tense shoulders relaxed fractionally, the tiny creases on his forehead smoothed out just a little, and his body fell back to rest against the cushions on the couch a little more comfortably.

The movie had almost ended by the time John relaxed enough to actually look at him. John gazed at him for several long moments, the last of the fear, helplessness and desperation leaving his eyes, before reaching out, taking hold of Harold’s closest hand and bringing it up to his mouth.

He maintained eye contact while brushing the lightest of kisses across Harold’s knuckles, soft and warm. Harold smiled gently at him in response, and reached out with his other hand to run it lightly through his hair.

“I’m here, John.” 

John drew in a deep breath, shuddered all over and closed his eyes, still holding on tightly to Harold’s hand, leaning into his touch.

On their television, Rick was telling Louis about the start of a beautiful friendship.

 

****************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Harold didn’t make it a habit of lying to himself. He was well aware of just how strange his life had become ever since he had hired John and started working on the numbers. Risking his life repeatedly for complete strangers, dealing with artificial super intelligences that may or may not be trying to take over the world, working closely with the woman who had kidnapped him (twice), staring down the barrel of a gun pointed right at him - these were all things he had grown accustomed to and accepted as part of his new bizarre life. 

Even so, waking up after a particularly good night’s sleep, still feeling warm and drowsy, just to look over and vaguely be able to make out John’s blurry shape in an armchair close to the bed was mildly disconcerting. The feeling was amplified by the fact that he could tell all of John’s focus was purely on him at the moment.

“Mr. Reese, staring at someone while they’re sleeping is generally considered inappropriate.”

In his mind’s eye, Harold pictured John’s mouth curving into an amused smirk.

“How do you know I was staring at you?”

“I can tell. I have psychic powers.”

John laughed - a happy, carefree sound that made Harold’s heart clench and suddenly want to see him. He reached over to grab his glasses from the nightstand and was stopped by John bounding over to the bed and bracing himself over Harold, leaning in close.

“Can you see me now?”

His face came into sharp focus and Harold took a moment to appreciate it – his slightly mussed hair, his sparkling eyes, with a hint of mischief in them at the moment, and his mouth open in a wide playful smile as he gazed down affectionately at Harold.

“Yes. Hideous. Get off me.”

John’s smile widened and he leaned in even closer. Harold closed his eyes and gasped slightly when he felt John press a kiss to his eyelids, a gentle brush of the lips, light, tender, _fond_. He brought his hands up to run them through John’s hair and couldn’t help his own mouth curving into an affectionate smile as John nuzzled his way down and buried his face in Harold’s neck, breathing in deeply. 

Harold could feel Bear’s reproachful eyes on him as he coaxed John into bed properly and decided that a few extra minutes delay in taking their dog for a walk wouldn’t quite result in the end of the world.

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Silence. The kind Harold always hated. The kind he had been faced with far too often ever since he hired John. The machines beeped in the background, meaningless, and Harold stared into the distance, hands loosely held by his sides, face betraying nothing and mind in organized chaos. 

He mapped out all possible paths of absolute destruction, automatically arranging them in ascending order of how much it would hurt. Hurt the people who had done this, who had _dared_ to do this. He briefly considered rearranging them in order of difficulty before dismissing the idea. They were all easy enough to accomplish after all. Practically effortless. A few minutes with his laptop, a few bribes here and a couple of threats there, and he was going to them pay, make them _beg_ , systematically annihilate them and everything they held –

“Finch?”

John’s voice was barely above a whisper, scratchy and weak. He was lucky he was alive. The people who had done this were even luckier that Harold hadn’t had the chance to open his laptop yet.

John had 3 broken ribs - deliberately broken using a hammer, Harold’s mind supplied dutifully and analytically. Deep lacerations down his back, ranging from 2 inches to 8 inches – torture, they wanted to know more about John’s boss. A broken femur, compound fracture, left leg – because John laughed at their questions. Fingernails torn off his right hand, thumb, index and pinky – when John laughed some more. A gunshot to his gut – a wild shot in the dark when chaos broke out and Fusco and Root stormed the facility. And it hadn’t even been Samaritan or The Brotherhood; it had just been a normal case, a case that _he’d_ sent John out to –

“ _Harold._ ” 

John’s voice, more insistent this time, brought Harold back and he became aware of John tugging weakly on his bloodstained sleeve with his left hand. He took in a deep breath, balled all of his plans into a tiny box and locked it away. Later. He’d have time later.

John beckoned at him and Harold leant down, obligingly shifting even closer when John continued to frown at him. When he was at last close enough that their noses were almost touching, John lifted his face slightly and Harold closed his eyes helplessly as he felt lips (bruised, cut, bloody) touch his forehead lightly. 

He lifted his head and opened his eyes to stare at John.

“S’ok. Promise.” John managed to assure him raggedly before passing out again. 

Harold permitted himself to let out a shuddering breath and gently swept John’s hair back from his forehead. Yes, he supposed it _would_ be ok.

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Harold finished hacking into the NYPD’s employee database with a decisive final tap to his keyboard and leaned back in his chair to observe John. He was sitting at a table a few feet away, his attention focused solely on the sniper rifle he was currently cleaning, fast and efficient. 

Harold had gotten used to the sight over the years and there was _something_ about John calmly and coolly stripping, cleaning and reassembling his weapons that was mesmerizing when he allowed himself to think about it.

John must’ve noticed the intense gaze directed towards him, because he glanced up from the rifle and flashed Harold a quick smile, one of his genuine happy ones, the ones that took Harold’s breath away and made him long for a camera to capture the moment every single time. 

He watched as John finished with his weapon and returned it to the armory room, focusing on the fluid walk, the effortless grace and his tall, lithe body.

“You’re going to have to stare at me some other time, I’m afraid, Harold.” John’s voice were filled with amusement. “Duty calls. Detective Riley has a busy day ahead of him.”

He shrugged into his jacket and gave Bear a quick pat before starting up the stairs.

“Mr. Reese.” Harold’s voice was quiet and stopped John right in his tracks. He stood up and casually made his way towards John. “I’ve taken the liberty of giving Detective Riley the day off, so your presence at the precinct won’t be required.”

John swallowed and watched as Harold came closer. “Why?”

Harold stopped right in front of him reaching up to smoothen the lapels of John’s coat. “Because I want you here, John.”

And he reached up to kiss John, fast and passionate. John moaned in response and Harold guided them both backwards, pushing until John hit the wall behind him with a thud. He deepened the kiss, tongue probing, insistent and John put up a token resistance before surrendering, just like he always did, opening his mouth for Harold, melting completely against him, warm and pliant.

Harold built up a filthy rhythm that had John groaning into his mouth and thrusting his hips desperately looking for some, _any_ friction, whimpering when Harold tangled his hands in his hair and tugged sharply. Harold moved a thigh, pressing it up against John and smiled against John’s mouth as he gasped and grinded against it urgently, shuddering and whining in protest when Harold abruptly pulled away. 

Harold took 2 steps back and surveyed John critically - a sharp blush staining his cheekbones, hair mussed and untidy, legs spread, shirt untucked, with a slightly dazed look in his eyes - and nodded in satisfaction, smirking slightly.

“Happy Birthday, John. Let’s make this a memorable one.”

John slumped back against the wall and let out a helpless laugh as Harold closed the distance between them to kiss him again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> These kisses aren't meant to be in chronological order. Which one was your favorite? :)


End file.
